by Gale Deitch
“Shiva. You know. People come to pay their respects to the family. Kind of like a Wake. Except quieter, and there’s no body.”
“Oh. Need any help?” Bradley’s eyebrows knitted together in concern.
He leaned in closer, and I got a whiff of his cologne, the same one he wore last Saturday night at the Schwartz house. It smelled citrusy, but earthy too, and made me tingle in places I shouldn’t, standing there in the middle of the cemetery.
“Well, Zach will be there, mainly to keep the food replenished and to clear away dirty plates,” I said. “We could use help serving the beverages, but I couldn’t pay you anything. I’ve offered my services for free.”
“Of course I’ll help. No charge. I’ll feel as if I’m finishing the job I never got to do at the Schwartz party last Saturday night.” He opened my car door, and I slid in behind the wheel just as Zach was getting into my passenger seat. “Hey Zach,” Bradley said, bending lower to peer into the car.
“Hey,” Zach answered in an unenthusiastic tone.
“See you there,” Bradley said, closing my door.
I pulled out of my space, anxious to get a head start on all of the guests who would be descending on the Schwartz house.
“See you where?” Zach had a scowl on his face.
“Bradley’s going to help us at the Shiva house. Judging by the huge crowd here at the cemetery, we’re going to need every hand we can get.”
“Trudie, we can handle it ourselves. It’s not a sit-down dinner. Just some finger foods and pastries. We don’t need Bradley.”
At a red light, I jammed on the brakes, and we both jerked forward. I turned to Zach. “With all these people, we do need him. He can help serve drinks. What is your problem with him?”
“I don’t have a problem with him. I have a problem with you and the way you act around him, getting all smiley and flirty,” Zach said, his face a watermelon red.
The light changed to green, I pushed down hard on the accelerator, and the car lurched forward. “The way I act? What about the way you act around Ally? You always have to come to the rescue for poor, poor Ally. When will you learn that she’s just using you?”
“Using me? This was her father’s funeral. She was upset. Should I ignore that?”
Only a mile from the entrance onto the Capital Beltway, I sped past the slowpokes in the right lane. “There were plenty of people who could have helped her. You didn’t have to be the one. As it was, you left me high and dry to walk through the wet grass by myself. Until Bradley came to my rescue.” I accelerated some more. “And you know what, Zach? I’m going to let him help whenever he asks.”
The shrillness of a siren caught my attention, and I checked the rear view mirror. Lights flashed atop an unmarked car on my tail.
“Shrimp,” I said. “Shrimp, shrimp, shrimp. Now we’ll never get there in time.” I didn’t know what I wanted to do more, scream or cry. I composed myself, pulled onto the shoulder and rolled down my window. “Zach, the registration is in the glove compartment. Would you get it?”
“Lady, do you know how fast you were going?” a familiar voice inquired.
I turned to the window. Detective Goldman. “What are you doing, pulling me over? You know I have to get to the Schwartz house before the crowd arrives.”
He nodded at me, “Miss Fine,” and then to Zach, “Mr. Cohen. Just doing my job. Again, do you know how fast you were going?”
“I don’t know, thirty-five maybe, forty.”
“How about fifty in a thirty-five mile zone. I’m going to have to give you a ticket.” Between Zach and Goldman, my head felt as if it was sitting in a pressure cooker, the lid about to burst.
“A ticket? You’re going to give me a ticket? One day you take me to lunch and the next, you give me a ticket? And since when does a homicide detective give out traffic tickets?” I turned to Zach for confirmation, but he was staring straight ahead, acting invisible.
“Makes no difference when you’re breaking the law,” Goldman continued, drawing my attention back to him. “I’ve been following you all the way from the cemetery and could barely keep up. We don’t need two funerals today.” He pulled out his pad, the same one he’d been using during his investigation.
“You were following me all the way from the cemetery? Isn’t that considered stalking? Maybe I should be reporting you to the police.” Hah, I thought. I’ve got him there. “Listen, Detective Goldman, I have to get to the Shiva house, for God’s sake. They’re waiting for me. Why don’t we call it a wash—I won’t report you if you don’t report me.”
“First of all, I was not stalking you. I’m headed to the same place you are. Second, that’s bribery, which is an even more serious offense than speeding.” He grinned at me and crossed his arms. “But I’ll let you go with a warning this time.” He gave me a wink. “See you over there.”
I watched through my side view mirror as he headed back to his car and pulled out into the traffic. I followed behind.
“He took you to lunch?” Zach asked.
Whoops. I forgot that Zach didn’t know about Goldman’s visit to the office the other day. “Well, he didn’t actually take me to lunch. He wanted to ask a few questions, it was lunch time, and I was hungry. So we went to the Silver Diner. That’s all.”
“You mean the day I went out to get our salads, came back and you were gone?”
“That would be the day.” I kept my eyes forward on the road ahead.
“You didn’t say anything about Goldman.”
I could feel his eyes boring through me.
“No, I didn’t. I don’t need to tell you everything that goes on in my life.” I thought I sounded pretty convincing.
“But Trudie, we don’t keep secrets from each other.”
When I stopped at another red light, I turned to him. “If you had said that last week, Zach, I would have agreed with you one hundred percent. Am I supposed to believe that you’ve never kept anything from me?”
“Okay, except for the stuff about Ally, I’ve always been truthful with you. Don’t you believe that?”
I thought about the peanut incident that had caused a young woman’s death, a fact I had just found out from Ally. Something Zach had conveniently never mentioned. Then I glared into his eyes. “No. I. Don’t.”
ALTHOUGH ANXIOUS TO get to the Schwartz house, I wasn’t too worried about being late because May, a former classmate from Johnson and Wales, had agreed to deliver the platters for me. May was short for her given name, Maybelline, her mother’s favorite drugstore cosmetic brand when she had given birth to May at age fourteen. May spent most of her childhood and young adulthood overcoming that name. Now, she ran a successful restaurant called, of all things, Maybelline’s, featuring New Orleans cuisine with an elegant twist. She and I occasionally helped each other out, and I knew she would have everything under control.
I hadn’t seen her in a few months, so when I walked into the Schwartz kitchen, I felt the usual awe she inspired. Slim and graceful, May had the complexion of crème caramel. When she glided across a room with a serving tray, her posture erect, her chin held high, all heads turned. Her beautiful and commanding presence could easily have intimidated everyone in that room—wealthy magnates and politicians alike. But May exuded a warmth that immediately put people at ease.
“May, I desperately need your help tomorrow,” I had pleaded when I’d spoken to her the day before.
“Shuga,” she’d replied in her Louisiana drawl. “Of course I’ll help you. It’s a weekday, and I am free as a bird.”
Seeing her now in the Schwartz kitchen, I gave her a big hug. I could have wrapped my arms twice around her slim frame. “I’ve missed you. Thanks so much for helping me out. I really wanted to be at the funeral.”
“No problem. Listen, it’s always good for my business to show off my stuff to potential diners. See,” she said, pointing to some platters waiting to go out, “I’ve added a few of my own specialties.”
“May, not
your famous Maybelline’s Pralines?” I plucked one from the silver tray and popped it into my mouth.
“Stop that, Trudie.” She slapped my hand playfully. “These are for the guests. I know they’re your favorites, so I’ve wrapped some up for you over there. Now hands off and let’s serve these babies.”
In the car, I had changed into my comfortable—and dry—flats, so entering the living room beside May, I must have looked like a duck waddling next to a graceful swan. We circulated among the guests with our trays while Zach kept the tables tidy, removing dirty plates, and Bradley served drinks. We were a good team, like a stew simmering all day on the stove, melding our flavors together.
I noticed Goldman speaking to various people, probably pretending he was a guest making casual conversation. Many, however, most likely recognized him as the detective at last week’s crime scene.
“You’re not actually conducting interrogations while the family is sitting Shiva, are you?” I asked, pulling him aside.
“No, just playing the field. You know, the killer is right here in this room.”
I whipped my head around, jolted out of my comfort zone. “Where? Who?”
“I’m not exactly sure. But the murderer always returns to the scene of the crime. He—or she—is here all right. Isn’t that the way it happens on TV?” His wry grin gave him away.
I swatted him on the arm. “You’re mocking me again. But seriously, how did Mr. Schwartz die?”
“Anaphylactic shock.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised. In the back of my mind had been that constant worry that something in our food had caused his death. Or that our guests would forever have that perception of our catering service. Still, remembering what Ally had told me, I began to tremble. “Peanuts?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“Then how could you suspect murder? Mr. Schwartz just ate something he shouldn’t have.” I tried to sound reasonable.
“Did any of your catered food have peanuts in it?” he asked.
“No, of course not.” He didn’t suspect me, did he? “Mrs. Schwartz gave me strict instructions that no peanuts or peanut oil was to be used. And Zach and I were very careful with all the ingredients and the preparation.” I swallowed, thinking back to every dish we’d served. Certainly, Mr. Schwartz had barely touched our food.
Goldman nodded. “And if not you, who?”
Obviously, I thought, someone who knew about Mr. Schwartz’s allergy and still gave him peanuts in some form to ingest. The murderer. “But his head was bleeding. Couldn’t he have died from the blow to his head? Or maybe he drowned when he fell into the pool.”
Goldman shook his head. “Autopsy results don’t lie.”
Of course, I knew that. In this case, I just didn’t want to believe it.
Goldman continued. “Someone wanted him dead, knew he was allergic to peanuts, and assumed that once the food was eaten, there wouldn’t be any evidence.”
“Assumed there wouldn’t be any evidence? You mean there could still be evidence, even after the food has been eaten?”
“Sure. Residue, greasy finger smudges, food samples, any number of things. We gathered it all at the crime scene.” Goldman sounded pretty self-assured, but I had my doubts.
I headed toward the kitchen feeling numb. Could Ally have been involved in her own father’s death? And could Goldman prove it? If so, would she allow Zach to take the blame for her—again?
I turned my attention back to the detective. Yes, he could be condescending and smug and downright sarcastic, but he was also smart. Surely he wouldn’t suspect Zach of murder. Opening the front door, Goldman nodded to me and left. I suppose, even in his line of work, he realized this was not an appropriate time for an official investigation. After the few confrontations I’d had with the detective over the past week, however, I guessed he was making a mental list of people he wanted to question later.
I walked across the room to clear some plates from a sofa table behind Mr. Lewis and another man, who I recognized as a guest at the Schwartz party.
“Bob, listen.” His friend spoke quietly. “I hope you’ve discarded those pants by now. You need to get rid of the—you know.”
“You worry too much, Mason. They’re good linen pants. I’m having them sent out to the dry cleaners.” Mr. Lewis swirled the ice in his glass and then kicked back the rest of his cocktail. He frowned when he noticed me, then handed me his glass.
I froze. He had to know I’d overheard them. “Th-thank you,” I stammered. “Would you like another?”
He shook his head, his eyes not leaving mine as he rose from his seat. “I was just leaving.”
“Okay. And what about you, sir?” I said to his friend.
“No thanks.” His expression was not much friendlier than that of Mr. Lewis.
Once they had gathered their wives, said their goodbyes to Mrs. Schwartz and left the house, I breathed a sigh of relief. Why was it important for Mr. Lewis to get his pants dry cleaned? Was it evidence he needed to get rid of? I wondered if this was something I should report to Detective Goldman. Or was I again letting my imagination get the better of me?
When the guests had gone and May and Bradley were finally convinced to go home, Zach and I stood side by side wiping the last of the serving platters. I gazed at him with a sheepish look, and he grinned. We’d been friends for so long that we hardly needed to speak. We’d made it through another successful catering job. The guests enjoyed the food. The hostess was thankful. What more could we want?
“I’m sorry, Trudie.” He peered at me over a clean stack of plates.
“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been upset with you for helping Ally. You did the right thing. It was sweet of you.”
“And I shouldn’t be jealous of Bradley. You were right; we did need him today. He’s just so damned helpful, always smiling like he’s posing for a magazine ad. He seems like a nice guy, but I’m not sure yet if I totally trust him.”
I walked over to Zach and put my hand on his. “I appreciate your honesty. And I promise that Saturday night at the Lewis dinner, I’ll try not to get all ‘smiley and flirty’ with him. Okay?”
He nodded. “Okay.”
“Pssst. Trudie.” Mrs. Schwartz stood in the kitchen doorway and crooked her index finger at me.
It reminded me of the story Hansel and Gretel when the witch keeps checking the children’s fingers to see if she’d fattened them up enough yet. But they tricked her by holding up a bone instead. Mrs. Schwartz’s finger looked like that bone.
“Can I speak to you privately?” she asked, slurring her words.
“Sure.” I imagined it might have something to do with her whisper to me at the cemetery.
I followed her into the living room. Her feet were bare, and her legs thin as twigs below the black, knee-length dress, as she tottered precariously across the room. She sat down and patted the cushion beside her on the sofa, a gesture for me to join her. Then she leaned toward me. “Tell me, Trudie. You were here last Saturday. Who do you think wanted to kill my dear, dear Melvin?” Every word expelled a puff of bourbon breath.
“I—I don’t know. I was in the kitchen most of the time, preparing the food.” I had some suspects lined up in my mind, but I wasn’t ready to reveal those thoughts to anyone yet. “What do you think?”
“Don’t tell anyone, but I think,” she started, swaying from side to side. “I think…” and with that, she passed out, falling sideways on the sofa, her head cushioned by a pillow. I stood up, lifted her feet onto the couch, and covered her with a plush throw from the side chair. I checked her pulse and held my hand up in front of her open mouth to make sure she was still breathing. I couldn’t afford to lose another client.
What could Mrs. Schwartz have wanted to tell me? Did she have information about something that had happened, something she shouldn’t have seen? Or had Mr. Schwartz confided in her about a bad deal that was bothering him? After all, he was a man of great integrity, almost to a fault. What
ever it was, I would have to speak to her when she was in a more sober state of mind. How I would accomplish that, I didn’t know.
More than that, how was I going to face Mr. Lewis at his dinner party Saturday night?
Chapter Eleven
Zach and I arrived at work early Saturday morning to take the van to Restaurant Depot in Alexandria. For small restaurants and catering businesses like ours, this was the best place to purchase high-quality meats and produce at good prices. On the way back, we went through D.C. to the Maine Street wharf to pick up the freshest seafood available. Everything was to be low carb as Barbara Lewis had requested for her husband. This would be a no-brainer for me.
By nine-thirty, we were back at the shop beginning our prep work, marinating the flank steaks, steaming carrots and parsnips to puree later, and piping dark chocolate Ls—for Lewis—onto parchment paper to be used as garnish for the brandy-poached pears with cinnamon whipped cream. We’d use the Lewis’ linens, china, glassware and silver, which would make our job a lot easier.
In the afternoon, we changed into black shirts and pants, over which I would wear my purple apron with A Fine Fix embroidered tastefully in orange italics across one of the pockets, and Zach would wear a purple tie. We had four uniform options that were tailored to various events, some casual and some for dressier occasions. Bradley would be wearing his tuxedo, so I brought along a purple bow tie for him.
Since the dinner party was scheduled for seven o’clock, we arrived at four sharp for our on-site setup. I was pleased to see that the Lewis’ housekeeper had already set the table. It would have taken us a good half hour or so to set twenty places with all the china and silverware placed in perfect alignment. Bradley, who arrived soon after us, surprised us by folding the napkins into a fan shape on each dinner plate.
At six, Barbara Lewis swept into the kitchen in a billowing black kimono-style robe. “Trudie, dear,” she sang out, surveying our work in the kitchen. “How are things coming?”
“Just fine, Mrs. Lewis. You remember my partner, Zach, and Bradley, our bartender.”